Gemotions

He stared at the menu, the words blurring slightly. John had poured his heart and soul into creating his "Crimson Risotto." Now, a trendy Italian bistro, "Bella Notte," was serving it as their signature dish. He couldn't shake the feeling of being suffocated by the air.

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture. The risotto was his masterpiece, the perfect combination of flavors and textures. The bistro's version, he knew, wouldn't be the same. He hated the thought of his carefully constructed recipe being twisted and reinterpreted.

The bustling restaurant felt too loud, too bright. He ordered a simple salad, unable to face the prospect of eating something that was, in essence, his. The idea of food seemed utterly unappealing.